Connecting with God through poetic articulations of lived, embodied experience–engaging texts from the Revised Common Lectionary for Christian churches, other biblical and spiritual texts, and evocations of the divine in rituals and other public events–always accepting lived reality as a primary source of divine revelation and mystery.

Reflection on the 7th Sunday after the Epiphany, Year A

Give to everyone who begs from you, Jesus says that, oh yes he does, and more, too: Turn the other cheek, give up your cloak, do not refuse anyone, anyone, who wants to borrow from you. How can we keep the economy going with talk like that? And what about the beggars, what if they use my money to buy booze? What good is that? Respond to being forced to go one mile by going the second mile—what if I don’t have time to go that far? Don’t resist an evildoer, love your enemies, pray for your persecutors: How can we live in the world today with attitudes like that? Does he even know, or care, about ISIS and our opponents from the other party?

The world is a tough place; you’d think Jesus would know that, given how Rome treated the Jews, how Herod killed cousin John. Sometimes, I think Jesus lives in another world.

Oh, right, he does. And he keeps trying to get me to join him there, except for him the there is here, now.

This didn’t start with him either, he knows Leviticus: leave the gleanings of fields and vineyards for those in need (remember Ruth?), no defrauding your neighbor, no keeping wages of others, no false swearing, no slander, no unjust judgments; you shall love your neighbor as yourself (yes, Jesus was repeating Leviticus).

So why is it so hard for me, maybe you, too, to go where Jesus goes, to be one of the people of the Way—some of his early followers were called that—to live with open heart and open hand, to speak in love even to those whose ugly words and deeds cause me to shudder and rise in anger to say No? Can I do both? Can I say no and also say I love you? Why not? Is not all possible with God?

Paul told Corinthians the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God; so, he said, become fools that you may become wise.

So let us dance in the street when there is no music except the tapping of our souls, let us toss coins in the air and take beggars to lunch, let us hug the racists and the thugs, let us find men and women in need of coats and strip ours off our backs, and do all generous, foolish things that will cause authorities, and our families and churches, to question our sanity, believing, knowing(?), that is where and when we will find Jesus.

People of means in your church help pay the bills, including salaries, and especially the pastor’s, and they are usually pleased and proud to do so, but conflict may arise when Jesus tells the parable of Lazarus and the unnamed rich man. What church, indeed what church leader, lay or ordained, would know the name of a beggar but not that of a rich man who either already gave funds to build the new addition (and where his name is on the plaque) or who is being asked to do so? But that is what Jesus does—leading us again to wonder what kind of leader he would be for our church? Could we afford a pastor who lives this way, turning the tables not only over in the sanctuary but also making it difficult, perhaps impossible, to buy new ones?

wikigallery.org

Here again Jesus provides comfort to the slave, the sharecropper, the unemployed, victims of racism, ableism, sexism, xenophobia, and all other ways we divide people into those with whom we connect, those we see, those whose eyes we meet, and those we walk by, step over, avert our eyes as if to say we deny they exist, echoing today in the claim “All Lives Matter” in response to anguished cries of many that some lives more than others are blown away by bullets, thrown away by poverty, discrimination and privilege.

Privilege. That is what the rich man had, the option not to see Lazarus, not even to see the dogs who licked Lazarus, infecting his wounds. So we see what to do, emulate Father Abraham, bring those we “diss” and dismiss into our heart, make it the bosom of Abraham—and that is not only the work of the rich but also many, including me, whose privilege is not only wealth greater than most of the world but also whose skin color, gender, ability, age, weight gives us a leg up in the marathon of life.

Oh that Jesus, doing it again, holding the mirror up to see ourselves so we can decide which actor in the parable is us— and perhaps choose how to respond . . . today.

A Reflection in Response to Proper 17, 15th Sunday after Pentecost, Year C
(focusing on Luke 14 and Proverbs 25)

Jesus is a gracious guest, not grabbing the best seat, not worrying for himself about status—at the same time using status to suggest that blessing is more important than being blessed, even as we bless others we are blessed. He is such a good rabbi, reminding the gathering as in Proverbs 25, “it is better to be told, ‘Come up here,’ than to be put lower in the presence of a noble,” but Jesus also, again, makes a challenging claim on us— “when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.”

vincentmars.com

There is a man at the Metro stop where I live who sits often, saying “pennies, pennies, pennies . . . .” in a small, rasping, needy voice. Most of us pass him by, part of the everyday landscape not unlike the Native woman who carries a crude sign, “Single mother, 4 child,” holding the hand of one of them, a girl about seven or eight, seeking donations on the train. How do we invite them to share in the banquet? So far all I know is to give them some change, a dollar bill or a protein bar. Most people seem to look away. Is it enough for me to give that small support or do I at least need to see doing this as a joyous act, not a duty but a gift given to me to reach out and invite them to the banquet?

I mean whose banquet is it anyway? And what kind of banquet is it, where I, or we, invite the poor—I am afraid to ask Penny Man home, would he leave when the meal ends and how would I feel sending him back on the street? How could I forget him when I did that? Damn it, Jesus, why do you leave us with these words that challenged those long ago and can upend us when—if –we allow ourselves to let them get under our skin—when we usually resist by hoping someone else will feed the poor and the rest you mentioned, and more we know need help? Can’t the government do something or what about other churches or charities?

But you speak about more than helping; you want us to become community with those we rarely see and never consider part of our group, our social set, our tribe, our people. That would mean digging deeper into understanding our neighbor; who is my, who is our, neighbor really? I know the immigrant is my neighbor, and others who some despise, but what about Penny Man and that desperate mother and the Black man and others behind bars for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as well as those who really broke the law? When was the last time I visited someone in prison? At least they have a roof, three squares a day— but not much dignity on the inside and most often little help when they are allowed to rejoin what we call society.

Thanks to you, Lord—yes, I mean that, and my voice also carries an edge—I cannot get Penny Man or the mother with her four kids, out of my head, maybe even my heart. I’m on my knees, let this cup pass me by I say, knowing how offensive that sounds compared to your request in the garden long ago . . . so I keep praying, trusting you will guide me to become both my neighbor’s keeper and just a better neighbor.